


About Us, Parting (II)

by averynicecake



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Brief Bianca Davri, Crushes, Custom Hawke, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, I'm sorry!!!, Love Confessions, Mabari, Mabari death mention, Past Relationship(s), Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss, Pre-Weisshaupt, Purple Hawke, Skyhold, past fenris/hawke, we don't talk about bianca here in the vhawke house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 13:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16913742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averynicecake/pseuds/averynicecake
Summary: Varric struggles with his duties after the events at Adamant, Hawke dreads her departure for Weisshaupt, but too much relies on it for her to voice her concern. She's been known to press an issue until it runs dry, and he knows how to work her buttons the way she doesn't.There is no 'part' about them. There is only parting.There is no quick fix, but when has that ever stopped Hawke?(rewrite of an old fic. I'm an old dog with about three tricks.)





	About Us, Parting (II)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [About Us, Parting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11191545) by [averynicecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/averynicecake/pseuds/averynicecake). 



> Korani is pronounced Kor-AH-nee, like the 'ah' in father.  
> Feel free to replace her name with your Hawke's name in your head, I'm just very attached to her.  
> (She's my original Hawke, purple, of course, and very much a snarkball.)

Skyhold, for its assortment of rich, delicate tapestries and burnished copper candelabras, was so poorly insulated that, come the end of autumn, its corridors seemed to turn into tombs, thick with gloom and bitter cold. Frost left its fingerprints smeared over every solid surface, overruled only by the weak heat of bodies desperately huddling for warmth. It left a scent that buried into fabrics, and left not a single man's shirt safe from its limp, sodden state. Damp was thick in the air, heavy and smothering. No corner was untouched, but on occasion, there would be a spot of comfort where the windows opened a crack more, the walls were a touch drier, and air supply was almost breathable.

As was expected, any habitable rooms had been pounced upon by Inquisitor Lavellan at once, gagging for a room that wasn't drenched in mildew, but she was not so selfish as to keep all her spoils. Each of her battling companions had a room of their own, a cosy nook to keep their things that was as close to satisfactory as they could hope. Sera had the tavern room overlooking beaten-down grass, Bull had the stable basement – which, as it happened, doubled as a wine cellar nobody had touched for decades – and Varric graciously took his secluded alcove beside Lavellan's quarters, converted haphazardly into something that kind of resembled a study, if you looked at it right.

Out of those three, the dwarf had been luckiest by far. Sera had enjoyed decorating her room to be as much of an eyesore as she could, but didn't care for much past the garish drapes and pillows. Bull had enjoyed the vintage wine, and enjoyed it a little too fast, and very much all at once. Varric, however, had all he needed; a small, arched window that threw open onto the prettier side of Ferelden, sturdy stone walls that stood sound against winter's venom, and, most importantly, complete and utter _silence_. Sleeping through noise had never been much of a trial – after a few drunken camp-outs with Isabela, you tended to get used to the buzz – but writing required a steady mind. Nowadays, between paperwork and Guild parley, he rarely had the chance to pick up a quill and let loose on a new tale, but on the occasion he did it was imperative to have complete peace. More than a few distractions and he'd lose his mind in a whole spectrum of manners. The return of Corypheus and the looming threat of the Fade called for his creative hands to move once more. Had it not been for Lavellan's kindness, he would have gone mad.

Golden wisps of setting sunlight leaked over Varric's hands as he sifted through tattered stacks of parchment, fingers marked with ink, smudging prints across manuscripts and dog-earing pages ad he thumbed. Somewhere in this hellscape of a 'filing system' was the unsold, untouched, original manuscript of _Tales of the Champion_ , complete with blotted pages and scribbles and rewritten drafts, but finding it in such a cluttered mountain was not an easy task by any means. It could well take him days before he found the script. He was a writer by heart, and all writers came back and remaster their old work at some point – usually after a few weeks, maybe months if he felt uninspired. It had been years since he had looked at a copy of this particular book. He missed the way he made Hawke stare death in the eye and fight back with witty bravado, yet bile rose in his throat when he thought about what they'd been through and every sleepless night he'd endured with his dearest companion. Audiences adored his romanticised Hawke, all guts and glory, undaunted in the face of fear itself, but the sights of every breakdown, every tear, every Maker-damned decision that was left undocumented, were burned like a brand into his mind. Gory reality didn't bring anybody hope – and that was what people needed. What people will always need above all else.

Hawke's arrival in Skyhold was sudden and widely unexplained. It sent unease through his bones to see her once more. A proper reunion, one with drinks, tears, anecdotes and stories – that was what they deserved after such a frustratingly long time apart. Hot Orlesian pastries, steaming coffee, a sliver of an evening to catch up, that was all he asked. It was a foolish and self-indulgent wish that he hadn't exactly earned – although, between depriving the Inquisition of a powerful ally until the time was right, or admitting he'd lied through his damn teeth to Cassandra and having his head impaled on a pike for her to use in battle, the choice wasn't hard. He hadn't regretted his decision; Hawke needed a break from the constant beg of battle. Plunging Hawke into a war he'd been partly responsible for was pretty low on his list of priorities.

“If you don't start paying attention to what you're doing, you'll give yourself a paper cut.”

Shuddering away the jolt that startled his shoulders, Varric turned in his chair and found a familiar figure in the doorway, leaning idly against the frame. Hawke's arms were crossed over her waist, brows arched in a catlike manner, lips curved up in a smirk he knew too well with her eyes half-lidded and striking blue. Remnants of warpaint smudged her cheeks, creased into a warm expression. The very picture of a rogue; stealthy, confident, and very, very smug.

“Please,” he scoffed, “if paper were so sharp, what good would my tongue do?”

Her voice purred in a low chuckle. “There are plenty of other uses for a man's tongue – or could it be Bianca's more of a straight-up rutting kind of girl?”

Varric feigned a shot to the heart and let his papers drop. “Ouch, Hawke, that hurt. That hurt me right in my feelings,” he said through an obvious grin. He gestured to a stool in the corner of the room and made a beckoning motion toward his desk – Lavellan's desk, generously donated, not at all pilfered. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Hawke dragged the chair over the floor and settled opposite him, a disappointed frown growing over her face as the splintered wood creaked under her. “This place could really do with better furniture. A touch of feminine charm, perhaps. It looks as if you've peeled a rather large onion and decided the skins would make lovely curtains.” Her nose crinkled like a mabari's snout. “Eugh. Smells like it, too.”

Varric held his hands up in surrender. “Don't blame me, blame Cullen. Not only is he Kirkwall's shittiest templar, he's the worst interior designer in the entirety of Thedas. What went through Lavellan's head when she assigned him to decoration will forever be beyond me. His pup doesn't exactly help, either – see those tooth marks over there? That bed was brand new from Orlais no more than a week ago.”

“I remember Hadric's chewing phase. Shredded every mouth-sized object in Lothering. Carver put boards up at his door to stop him getting in, but he chewed straight through those too.” She gave a wistful smile, as if watching a sick man crack his final joke. “I do miss the old thing. Great big slobbery moron, though he was.”

“He's dead,” Varric said in a slow realisation, and Hawke nodded slowly. “Damn. I'm sorry to hear that. I've never really been one for dogs, but Hadric... How long ago did he pass?”

She shrugged. Her eyes were still fixed to the floor, glazed over. “About... two years ago? It was far past his time. I think he held on until Fenris left, just to say goodbye, Maker bless him.” A shiver runs over her, and she blinks away a swarm of thoughts. “Andraste's hallowed hooters, Varric, it really has been too long.”

His ears pricked like a cat's. “Fenris left? Am I missing something?”

“You didn't get my letters. Of _course_ you didn't get my letters, I sent them to the bloody Hanged Man. Idiot.” The Champion's eyelids fluttered closed and she squeezed at her temples. “Fenris and I are no longer together. He upped and left one night while I was taking care of business in Darktown, no 'goodbye', no 'see you again'. Just a note at my bedside that was barely legible, saying he couldn't cope with being alone in Kirkwall, and he wanted to leave.”

“Well, shit,” Varric huffed, “shit, Hawke, are you alright?”

“I wasn't, when it happened, but I'm fine now. It was a long time coming. Fenris was never very good at keeping still, and neither was I, for a while. But I was getting old, and I wanted to settle with someone just as tired, in a place where we were still ass-deep in turncoats and templars. I wish I could have ended it civilly, but... It is what it is, I suppose.” Regret took refuge in her eyes, and she turned her head away like evading a bright light. “I've met other people since, but... I think I had, and still _have_ my sights set on something – someone – a little unachievable. Besides, you and I both know that flirting is perhaps my weakest talent.”

“This someone... might I know them? Or otherwise be able to pass my excellent judgement on?”

“Yes,” she said, and met his eyes with a stern look that told him to refrain from pressing the matter any further.

A stiff silence settled over the two old friends, speaking volumes of untold isolation, problems solved alone, longing from all the time they had spend apart. A strange sort of jealousy pooled in Varric's chest when his eyes fell upon Hawke's bare arms and saw scabs and scars from wounds he hadn't been there to dress. To think that she'd been alone, nobody there to give a smug 'I told you so' and scold her for not being more careful... He quickly pushed his gaze back to his work and sought comfort in his searching. It felt safer to look for paper Hawke. Real Hawke was bold, brash, full of snark and cutting wit. Real Hawke was short and sturdy, powerful, had such ice-blonde hair it was almost white, falling in gentle curls around her shoulders, soft and thick, just as she was whole. Real Hawke was more than the two-dimensional hero she read as; she had intense bouts of emotion and a wise head, cared more about her friends than anything else, kissed every wound and talked out every problem, meant all the words she said. She never let a man fall without being by their family's side to guide them through grief. Real Hawke had sobbed – really, truly bawled – when she told Anders to leave, because however much she felt betrayed, he was her dearest friend, and she loved him like family. Real Hawke was _real_ , and she was enrapturing and captivating in the fleshed-out way no words could capture, and Varric felt sick to his core that he had created this idolised marvel of fiction that she wanted dearly to be, but never was. Never could be.

Some time ago, she was a friend, a comrade, a warrior just as reckless as he was, surviving on miraculous dumb luck. But their partnership had gotten lost in time – first when she met Fenris, worsening when Leandra died. By the time Anders had acted, there was little resemblance to what there had once been. Her absence swallowed his mind the way red lyrium had taken Bartrand; slowly, painfully, and with an unmistakably savage bite that gripped at his chest and made him beg for release. It wasn't right. Guilt had taken him prisoner and chained him to Hawke, and every step away she took pulled his heart a little further out of his chest. He'd started collecting things – didn't that just sound silly? – that reminded him of his Hawke, and stashed them away to send when he was done being pathetic, but the day never came. He supposed, looking at the woman herself sat in front of him, picking at her gauntlets and humming an old tavern song, that he was the one keeping himself locked away. He'd spent so long in the dark, pitying himself over a lost cause, that he felt safer trying not to find it.

Cracking his knuckles, he curled his fingers over a quill and scribbled a quick note on the back of an old Merchants' Guild letter to package up those damn gifts and send them to Weisshaupt. Hawke, when he looked up, was peering over his hand, tracing her eyes over his writing and mouthing the words softly. He flipped the note over quickly.

“Did you need me for anything in particular, or did you just drop by to catch up?” Varric asked, and she seemed to blink herself back down to the earth.

She shrugged. “I heard you haven't been joining in the festivities?”

Preoccupied, his hands twitched a shrug, half buried in envelopes and leaflets. “I don't see that there's much to celebrate, is there? As far as I'm concerned, it's just another day where hundreds of good men are lost to one bad, and the only one we stop to think about is the one who used to shout the loudest.” He grunted and tossed a handful of old letters with Bartrand's writing on into the waste basket behind him. “Power comes and goes. Nothing's any different. If we stopped to celebrate every good man that died in this blasted war, we'd never sleep.”

“Stroud was a good man,” Hawke started rather defensively, “if he hadn't been in the Deep Roads when he was, Bethany would be dead. You don't mourn him?”

“What? No, of course I mourn him. I just...” Varric paused and peeled the tattered corners of a writ, eyes straying to his hands, balled into fists and squeezing paper. “I'm not sure I understand why his _loss_ is cause for celebration.”

Sitting forward, setting her hands upon the desk, Hawke delved into the thick stacks of paper and shifted it over her hands until it crumpled away. Under her thumb was a blotted note, firmly tacked into the wood of the desk, listing all the different parts of Varric's filing system – if it even deserved to be called that – and their locations.

“You had the same note in the same place in Kirkwall,” she explained, “you never remembered it back then, either.”

“Andraste's tits, how do you remember this shit? You could've saved me a lot of hours had you come earlier.” He reached into the right side of the desk, second from the bottom drawer, and dutifully found a string-bound manuscript coated in dust. He let it rest gingerly by his ink pot, barely letting his fingers graze, as though they would shatter it.

“Would you have celebrated if it had been me left in the Fade?” She asked, and his gut plummeted.

“That's an entirely different situation.”

“Maybe. But it's...” She seemed to consider her own words for a moment, rolling them back and forth over her tongue. Her cheeks tinged pink, and she scowled. “It shouldn't be.”

“Why not? You're a friend, Stroud was my acquaintance; it's very different. I don't have any sworn duty to treat you equally, so I don't see why it matters.” Carefully, he flipped the leather over to unwrap the first page. His fingers squeezed on the quill until the rachis bowed. “What's your point, anyway? You know exactly what I'd do.”

No response seemed to make its way past her teeth. He considered the issue mercifully dropped, and started to scratch another chapter into Tales of the Champion when Hawke's hot, calloused hands brushed past his and picked up the ink, drawing it to her chest, swirling it against the candlelight. The dark liquid sloshed in her palm, spilling over the edges of the pot and marking her fingers to match his own – but she wasnt looking at the ink. She was looking straight at him, with a loneliness in her eyes more desperate than he'd seen since Leandra died, and his quill bent and snapped in his tensing fist.

“Shit, Hawke,” he said, heart rising in his throat, “stop looking at me like that.” She ignored it.

“You say I'd know what you'd do, but I'm not sure.” Her gaze dropped, almost shamefully, to the pot. “Explain it to me.”

Varric shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It would be on another scale completely. I'd want to stay up here, alone, and mourn, of course I would. Losing you would be like losing a semi-vital organ.” No laugh. He looked up – no smile either. He cleared his throat. “I can't say for sure how I'd feel past 'miserable'. No party would ever be the same knowing you weren't there to trick me into showing my hand in Wicked Grace. It wouldn't be an enjoyable experience, I'm sure. But Maker, Hawke, would I want to be there to sing your praises – if my one purpose in life is to tell everybody how incredible you are and what amazing things you've seen, then I consider myself perfect for the job. I couldn't let them sit there and grieve without telling them all those stories that make you a person to grieve over. So, yeah, maybe I would celebrate. But I'd never rejoice. I'd do my fair share of suffering, too.”

She let out a deep sigh, pale azure eyes fluttering closed.

“You're not satisfied.” Hawke shook her head. He threw up his hands in desperation. “I don't know what else I can say, Hawke! I've given you the truth, what more do you want?”

She shrugged. “What about Bianca?”

“What?”  
“If you lost Bianca, what would you do?”

“Buy a new crossbow, I guess.” She shot him a piercing look twice as sharp as any bolt. “Alright, fine. I guess... Not much? Bianca is old news. There was a time, an age ago, where I would have done nothing but talk. Tell everyone about her, how marvellous she was, how much I loved her, despite all odds – but I haven't thought about her that way since I was young. I'm old, now, far too old for romance.”

“What if it were both of us,” Hawke scrambled. Her voice was a tempest, all locked inside and brewing hot, though her face betrayed no emotion. “If it were me _and_ Bianca. Who would you-”

“Maker's breath, Hawke, why are you asking me these questions? What's gotten into you? Anyone with half a brain would call you crazy!”

She inhaled sharply. “You're right,” she said quietly, and her lips pulled into a pained smile to match the tears pricking at her eyes. “I'm sorry, Varric, I should know not to pry. I think I've taken up enough of your time.”

She unfolded from the stool, legs weak underneath her. Gently, she placed the pot in the middle of a ring-stain of coffee, offered a polite nod, and moved toward the door.

“Wait,” he sighed, snatching her wrist decisively. “Sit down, Hawke.”

“It's fine.”

“No, really. We've always had a deal; a question for a question, and by my counting, you've asked me at least four, so. _Sit_.”

She pulled from his grip and mulled over her options for a moment. “Shit,” she said, and reluctantly dropped back into her seat. “You really don't want to hear the answer to anything you're about to ask me.”

“I wouldn't ask if I wasn't prepared to listen. You've plundered just about all the feelings I can dredge up, so I figure it's fair to do the same.” Hawke squirmed. “Why did you ask me about Stroud and Bianca? No shortcuts, no lies – I want the whole story, and I want it to be true.”

She muttered a string of curses under her breath. “There will be collateral for this, and you can't put that on me, alright?” Her eyes sought approval. He granted it in a nod. “I really, really like you, Varric. I care about you a lot.”

He blinked a few times before loosing a breath that he forgot he was holding. “That's... it? You care about me? Hawke, I know feelings don't exactly run in the family, but they're perfectly natural.”

“Maker's breath, don't make me spell it out for you; I can barely think it, let alone say it. I don't know how Fenris found out. Maybe he's more perceptive than he looks, or... I'm probably impossibly obvious about it, aren't I? I always had to smile when I talked about you, and you were the only one who broke through the Hawke family poker face of steel-”

“Easy, Hawke, you're losing me. Keep boosting my ego and I'll get the impression you're in love with me.” It took a second gone with neither of them saying a word before he clocked it, and felt like he'd been slapped round the head by a big, wet mackerel. He closed his open mouth and swallowed dryly, feeling his throat bob sharp against his skin. “Oh,” he muttered, and then, “well, shit.”

“Yeah. Shit,” she followed, and he blinked down at his hands, unable to process. “Maybe I should go,” she said, “I'll see you when I get back from Weisshaupt. Maybe.” Her legs seemed to grow taller than before when she stood, swamping him in an overwhelming sense of heaviness. Near the door, she stopped, glancing over like a last goodbye, when he caught her eye and the air rushed from his lungs. “Oh, Varric...”

He sprang from the desk at the sight of Hawke crumpling under her own weight, sending ink sprawling over the floor. He ducked down, let his hands hover in front of her body as it wracked with sobs, vulnerable and open, just the way she'd been when Bethany was taken. Drowning in hesitance though he was, he leaned forwards into her shaking form and enveloped her gently, like a mother soothes her child. Hawke's shoulders were impossibly weak beneath his grip, as if stripped bare of the bulk of her muscle and the softness of her flesh. Her neck was steaming hot against his own, sobs throbbing in her throat like a dying man's pulse, making no effort to do anything but sit like a stiff puppet against his body.

“Can you- can you _believe_ it? The Champion of Kirkwall, falling in love with her best friend?” Her voice was a faint whisper of her usual cocky lilt. “Because that's what it is, Varric- not just a crush, but love. I love you. I'm in love. With you. Isn't- isn't that stupid?”

“It's not stupid, Hawke.”

“It is! It's stupid, and foolish, and idiotic, and moronic, and every other word you can think of that writes the message, 'Hawke is a drivelling dimwit'.”

“No, it isn't. Hawke, listen.” He held her a few inches away from his chest, cupped her jaw with a gentle hand. “I am not worth an ounce of the grief you're going through, alright? You are an incredible, courageous, unforgettable woman. Completely unstoppable. Don't let me stop you, Hawke – you don't need me.”

She shook her head, eyes red and raw. “I don't care if I don't need you. I want you. Varric, I am in love with you. Doesn't that mean anything?”

“Of course it does.” The rocking and juddering of Hawke's body subsided. He leant back on his knees, gingerly taking her hand in both his own. “Hawke-”

“Korani. Just- call me Korani.”

“ _Korani_. You know I'm too old for romance. I've always been too busy tied up in everyone's business to have spare time for love. Bianca was a long time ago, when I was a different man, one who thought of nothing but himself, never realised what commitment brought along and, truthfully, wasn't really ready for it. I'm not a shining example of a partner, and I never will be. I can't let you in just to break your heart.” Her fingers bunch in his palm. He locks them in his own. “Look. There's a part of me that wants this. You are a talented, intelligent, beautiful woman, and I would be lying through my teeth if I said I wasn't fond of you as more than a friend, but I just don't know if I can risk losing you if this doesn't work.”

“I understand,” she said, and swiped at the tears on her cheeks. Her eyes, pure ice blue, were painted a heady colour in the warm light, so wide and forgiving. Never losing their hope.

“Then again.” In a swift movement, he brought her knuckles to his chin and brushed them over his lips. “Who better to try it with than the woman who knows me best in the world?”

Hawke's face lit up, cautiously trying to wrangle the smile that was splitting over her face. “You mean-”

“Yes. Hawke. Korani. Korani Hawke. If you are willing to take the risk of loving me, then I would be all too happy to return the favour.”

“I- of course! Are you? Willing to risk it, I mean.”

“I would ride a Nuggalope ass-naked to Tevinter and back if it would make this work.”

“You're welcome to do that too.”

Varric swatted at her shoulder and laughed from his core, a deep, hearty sound that set Hawke's face into an elated grin. “Shut up and let me kiss you, ass.”

She was captured all at once in his lips, and he felt the taste of ecstasy swell in his mouth when she hung her hands about his neck, and his pushed the hair from her face. Her heart beat soft, but fast, and a mass of tension melted from her body at his touches until she felt like putty, breathless and weak.

They untangled slowly, hair-raising clouds of hot breath panting on one another's necks. Gold, damp eyes met blue, wetter ones, and they exchanged an elated laugh before nestling into one another, relishing the touch of their bodies.

Skyhold, for all its gloom and bitterness, was so endlessly wonderful that come the end of autumn, when its corridors became damp and dingy, and frost left its fingerprints smeared over every surface, it nurtured love into belonging with the most painfully joyous of reunions. It was dark, and dreary, and the smell wasn't exactly pleasant, but on occasion, there would be a place where eyes dried their tears, wounds sealed their edges, and hearts vitally forged a lifetime stronger.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is, of course, a re-write of my first DA contribution! I never stop loving Vhawke. Ever.
> 
> I really appreciate any kudos, bookmarks and comments left, they always make my day!  
> Thank you! <3


End file.
